In a Dark Wood Wandering

by Hella S. Haasse

  Louis stifled the anger which welled up in him at these words; he forced himself to smile courteously as usual. “If I can be charged with no worse debauchery than attending my son’s christening feast…” he tried to joke, but broke off.

  “God knows, Monseigneur, that you waste enough time on matters which are in essence perhaps as senseless as debaucheries,” said de Maizieres in a low voice, folding his gaunt hands before him on the table.

  “What do you mean by that?” Louis did not look up; his fingers drummed the table top.

  “You know very well what I mean, Monseigneur, but it cannot harm either of us if I repeat my meaning within these walls. I have told you often enough that I believe you waste your time on enterprises which fade away like rings on the water. What is the point of looking for conquests in Italy when a hundred paces from your palace gate there is chaos which cries out for quick action?”

  Louis bit his lip and frowned; although he paused for a moment to collect himself, his voice held an undertone of impatient annoyance.

  “Did I ever initiate these enterprises, as you call them? Do you think I would be stupid enough to put my hand all alone into that hornets’ nest on the other side of the Alps without support from the King or the Pope? But by the time the King became ill too much had happened—I could not withdraw. I had to carry on even though my father-in-law and Pope Clement had deserted me. You don’t need to worry about me any longer, because nothing will come of my kingdom on the Adriatic Sea now that the Pope is dead. If I were to persist in carrying on my purpose in Italy, the brotherhood of former fighters would presumably unite against me.”

  “I am delighted that you see things this way, my lord. I was afraid you might not abandon the enterprise in spite of recent events. There are more serious problems here now. You have an extremely responsible position, and one which puts the obligation upon you of forgetting your personal interests. Now that the King cannot reign, you must act in the name of the Crown.”

  Louis laughed softly; the bitterness did not escape de Maizieres.

  “I wish you would deliver this speech sometime to my uncle of Burgundy, who sees—or professes to see—only self-interest in everything I do, and who does not hesitate to tell everyone that I am busy undermining my brother’s throne. As though everything I have done had not been worked out with the King when he still had his health—and since he became ill—for the last two years I have acted only in the interests of France. Those provinces which have been allotted to me—along with the whole Italian affair—behind all this is only the necessity to act in French interests. My lord uncles would never act as champions of the Kingdom, if it came to that… my brother knows that/ would never turn against him—on the contrary. It’s laughable the dark motives the Duke of Burgundy sees behind every gift of land.”

  He leaned toward the old man and went on with passion.

  “And now, this summer, as you know, the King confided the country of Angoulême to me. When he was lucid, we spoke of it together—he saw himself that it was of the utmost importance that a region so close to the English front should lie in trusted hands. If the war party conquers in London, all treaties are meaningless. Can you see my lord uncles marching to defend Paris? But you can well imagine that any new acquisition on my part gives Burgundy an opportunity to spew new venom. Ah!”

  He made a sound of deep aversion and clenched his fist on the table.

  “I don’t like to speak this way about my kinsmen, and God knows I would make every effort to maintain good relations—but sometimes I feel like someone who must dance in a field of thisdes, whirling gracefully in complicated steps, without being scratched or pricked for otherwise … it is like a picture from a nightmare.”

  He bent forward, pressing his fists to his forehead and gave a short, despairing laugh. De Maizieres heard him laughing and, more than by bitter words, the old man was alarmed by this laughter, which sounded like sobbing. Never before had Louis lost control so openly. De Maizieres sat motionless, too shocked to speak. However, Louis knew how to recover himself quickly. He looked up, smiling in his usual ironic manner, and said, “Fortunately, courtesy does not forbid me to choose my weapons in this secret combat. If my uncle of Burgundy is as cunning as they say, he will understand the significance of my having taken a thisde for my new device, my having conferred the title Comte d’Angoulême on my new-born son … and my having instituted an order, the order of the hedgehog, in his honor.”

  “It seems to me that you ought not to waste your time on childish skirmishes with emblems and titles,” said de Maizieres acidly. “Now what was it you wished to discuss with me, my lord?”

  “The Queen wishes my wife to leave the court. She has wanted that for a long time. But there never was a valid reason and in truth there is none now either, although the Queen is making every effort to find one, with the help of Madame of Burgundy, who begrudges my wife first place at the court. There are strange rumours circulating—I shall not repeat them—you know about them, perhaps?”

  De Maizieres shook his head and Louis continued quickly.

  “I consider it demeaning to pay attention to these kinds of stories, but I am positive this is creating feelings against my wife who deserves such treatment less than anyone. I think she suspects something already, and if she knew the Queen’s real purpose, she would go away at once, and she would not come back unbidden even if the stars fell from heaven. The situation has become so tense that I must do something … but what? I would like to spare my wife humiliation, but I cannot send her away without a reason. Sometimes I think I should quit Paris for good, with Valentine and the children.”

  De Maizieres stood up so abruptly that his sleeves swept the loose pages of a manuscript from the table to the floor.

  “My lord! You cannot possibly mean that. Will you deprive us of the only hope we have left since your father died? Monseigneur, you have never stood on the field in the heat of battle—if you had, you would know the meaning of desertion—”

  The blood rushed into Louis’ cheeks. He rose also.

  “Yes! Desertion!” De Maizieres continued in a voice trembling with emotion. “Even high treason, my lord! At this moment France has no other king but you. I know it is a thankless role you must play, concealed behind the throne, threatened on all sides. But you cannot be permitted to abandon the role even for a single instant, my lord; no one realizes better than I how much disappointment you have swallowed, how upsetting your situation is—but you must not give way.”

  “Quiet! Be still now, Maizieres,” Louis said roughly, putting his hand on his tutor’s shoulder. “You are talking drivel about kingship, secret or otherwise. I sit concealed behind the throne and I am exposed to gossip from all sides, it is true, but I am more like an unwanted house animal, an unwelcome dog, than a secret wearer of the crown.”

  “Monseigneur, Monseigneur.” De Maizieres folded his hands. “You have more influence than you seem to realize—infinitely more. The place you occupy cannot be allowed to fall vacant, under any circumstances. You have never needed to tell me that you serve the interests of France. I know it; I know you too well to doubt it. You must go on serving those interests, my lord, you are the only one who can.”

  “Don’t make me out to be better than I am,” Louis said shortly. “I might not be France’s champion if my interests did not happen to coincide with those of the Kingdom. I am only human.”

  “The Queen maintains relations with Bavaria, and the interests of Bavaria are not identical with those of France. The Dukes will not interfere with the Queen’s plans if they are not interfered with themselves. And so the Kingdom crumbles, my lord, like a dry crust of bread. There will be hunger, rebellion, rapine, boundless misery—and the English will manage adroidy to profit from this chaos.”

  “And now you want me to struggle like a second David against Goliath—with no weapon except a sling and a handful of pebbles? Do you really take me for a child then, Messire de Maizieres?”

 
; “I take you for a man who knows his obligations,” said de Maizieres, his head bowed. “I am no star gazer nor fawning courtier. I can’t make all sorts of encouraging predictions. It’s more than possible that you will find only frustration, my lord.”

  “Or a speedy death,” Louis said. He thought he felt again the palpable cold he had encountered in the dormitorium. He pulled his mantle tight and moved toward the arched doorway.

  “Are you leaving already, Monseigneur?” De Maizieres did not stir.

  “I wish to hear early mass in the chapel of Orléans,” said Louis. “What else can I do then but submit to the fate which awaits me? God grant me more humility and patience.” He stood for a moment staring at the black and white mosaic tile of the floor. “Do you know, Maizieres,” he went on, in that eager, boyish manner which made him so likeable, “something happened to the King and me when we were still children. Have you forgotten it? I was eleven years old—my father had been dead only a short while. We were hunting in the forest of Bouconne near Toulouse, with my uncle of Burgundy and Henri de Bar—I even believe that Clisson was with us …”

  “Indeed I have heard of a wall painting in the monastery of Cannes,” said de Maizieres with a vague smile, “which was brought there about ten years ago in memory of a miracle performed by Our Lady. And I know there is a hunting party in it… in a dark wood, surrounded by wolves, deer and other wild animals.”

  “That is the one I mean.” Louis turned and walked back to the table; he stared into the candle flame as he talked, lost in memory. “Night overtook us in the middle of the forest and we could not find our way. The horses were frightened; they did not want to go on, because somewhere near us wolves were howling. Besides, it was pitch dark—a heavy, overcast sky without a single star—and we had wandered off from the servants and torchbearers.

  “The King fell from his horse; the animal was skittish because it sensed my brother’s panic. I remember how we stood near each other, in despair in the darkness. Then my brother made a vow: that he would offer the value of his horse in gold to Our Lady of Good Hope if we escaped safely from the forest. Not long after that, we saw the torches of the hunting party through the trees. The monks of Carmes near Toulouse had dedicated a shrine to Our Lady of Good Hope. They had our adventure painted on its walls as an example.”

  “Why do you tell me this story, Monseigneur?” asked de Maizieres, raising his tired, slightly enflamed eyes to the young man. “What is the connection between a childhood adventure and the things we were talking about just now?”

  “Doesn’t it seem to you that we have, all of us—the King and I and our good friends—wandered off into a forest of the night, filled with wolves and sly foxes? The darkness holds endless danger; we are stranded with no torch to protect us. But even if the King were to offer now all the gold of France I am afraid that no Lady would save us from darkness and disaster. There is no Good Hope for us, Maizieres. We are lost in the Forest of Long Awaiting, a wilderness without prospect,” said Louis, employing an image much in vogue with the poets to express the frustration of hopeless love. “The Forest of Long Awaiting,” he repeated, deriving a kind of mournful pleasure from the sound of the words.

  De Maizieres, who was not susceptible to poetic phrases, sighed and shook his head. He had become tired and chilly during the conversation. Besides, a bell could be heard pealing somewhere in the monastery, a sign that the night had ended.

  Isabeau woke startled from a chaotic dream; she lay clammy with sweat under the heavy, fur-trimmed coverlet, her heart beating against her throat. At that moment the bells began to chime for early mass in the chapels of Saint-Pol and in the churches and cloisters of Paris. A wave of relief swept over the Queen, although her body ached with exhaustion. The prospect of having to wait a few more hours for daylight, she found unbearable. She turned her head toward the hearth, where her chambermaid Femmette sat dozing by the fire.

  “Femmette,” said Isabeau loudly. The woman sprang up with a startled cry, clutching to straighten her wrinkled kerchief. When she saw the Queen’s dark eyes fixed upon her, she knelt hastily on the carpet before the bed.

  “Forgive me, Your Grace. I was asleep. It was so warm by the fire.”

  “Good,” said Isabeau curtly. “Help me get up now.”

  She had thrown back the bedcover and shivered in her damp chemise. The chambermaid, who had been accustomed for years to obey Isabeau’s wishes blindly, now ventured a timid suggestion: the Queen had gone late to bed, the ladies of her retinue who had to help her dress were not yet in the anteroom; the Queen’s condition made a longer rest advisable.

  Isabeau sighed, irritated, her lips pressed together. If she was goaded, she could burst into a stream of invective. The control she had to exert toward kinsmen and dignitaries of the court taxed her nerves to the limit. She was used to taking out her frustration on her servingwomen. Now too she had to make an effort to hold back her anger; the chambermaid was already kneeling beside her, putting slippers on her feet. Femmette, who saw that the Queen was in a bad mood, remained silent; usually Isabeau spent the few minutes before she received her ladies listening to the chambermaid recount the gossip going the rounds of the city and the palace—the idle talk, the words caught on the sly—but now she was too distracted and annoyed. She had a cloak put round her shoulders and walked heavily to her prayer stool.

  The tolling of the bells and her own disordered thoughts made it impossible to concentrate; she prayed mechanically. While the beads of her rosary slid through her fingers, she thought of her plans for the day—she would go to the Audit Chamber to insist on a speedy setdement of her annuity; she would discuss with Salaut, her secretary, the gifts she must offer to relatives, court and servants on New Year’s Day; she had to accept the resignation of the King’s physicians—especially Harselly, whom she considered a stubborn, opinionated bungler—who had dared to attribute the King’s illness to an excess of wine and love. Then she wanted to dictate some letters to Salaut; she longed for the presence of her brother, Ludwig of Bavaria, who since her marriage had often resided in France. Whenever Isabeau, in the treacherous solitude of court life, felt a need for someone with whom she could be her real self, without reserve, she sent a message to Ludwig, who was usually to be found somewhere nearby, hunting and drinking with French barons.

  Isabeau had stopped praying; the rosary hung motionless between the folds of her robe. She was startled when the sound of city bells ceased; the steady chiming had put her into a sort of trance, a borderland between sleeping and waking, in which the events of her life, the countless plans and desires which controlled her, assumed an almost tangible form. She rose with an effort, leaning heavily against the prayer stool.

  Femmette, who had not dared to disturb the Queen’s devotions in any way, was about to go through to the anteroom to inform the mistress of ceremonies that the Queen was awake. But the Queen called her back and pushed aside the tapestry before another door. The chambermaid, anxious to comply with her mistress’s wishes, hurried after Isabeau with a candle to light her passage through the dark, quiet rooms. They came to a low, heavily bolted door, studded with iron lilies, which led to the chambers where the King resided; there had been a time when the door had stood open always so that the couple could reach each other at any hour of the day or night. Against this door, now locked on both sides, Isabeau often leaned, listening, trying to hear what was happening on the other side; sometimes she heard stifled cries, and the monotonous murmur of voices of doctors and servants; but most of the time—as now—a deep, almost ominous silence prevailed. The Queen walked quickly past the door, along the corridor which joined the royal apartments with those of the Dauphin and the three small princesses.

  From the fields surrounding the palace, which stood at the extreme edge of Paris, came a cold morning wind, blowing through the shutters and carrying with it a stench of rotting garbage; the great municipal sewer, the Pont-Perrin, emptied into a ditch along the embankment, not far from Saint
-Pol. Isabeau averted her head. The stink of spoiled food and other refuse called up her intense dislike of the people who swarmed through the narrow streets, of their constant needs, their incessant complaining and petitioning. Poverty and filth aroused Isabeau’s anger, never her compassion.

  Because it was her duty to do so, she ordered coins thrown to the rabble of beggars when she rode out in her coach or in a palanquin. But she could not muster the friendly smile and sympathetic words which the King dispersed so readily on these occasions even to the most disfigured and filthy beggars. She looked with friendly condescension upon merchants and tradesmen; the benefits of their labor came eventually, to be sure, into her exchequer; her existence justified theirs. But the josding mob of paupers inspired her only with a secret terror; their hoarse cheers seemed to be filled with veiled menace.

  Carefully, the Queen opened the door which led to the series of apartments occupied by the royal children. She chose to visit them, unannounced, in the early morning when they were still asleep, so she could see them without being bothered by them. Isabeau wanted to be proud of the Dauphin and the three small princesses; she wanted to be proud of their good looks, fine manners, pretty clothes, the power that would be theirs, the important marriages they would make. It was the love of a chess player for the precious pieces on her board; in it there was no trace of tenderness, of concern with the thousand littie joys and sorrows of a child’s life; the affection with which the Duchess of Orléans held her babies in her arms filled Isabeau with mild derision; a throne was not a nursemaid’s stool. She kept strict watch over her children’s governesses and tutors; they were fortunate children to have a mother who went to such lengths to see that they were raised as future bearers of crowns should be raised.